


The Touch of You

by releni



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Kissing, M/M, Star Trek V: The Final Frontier, Vulcan Bond, Vulcan Kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26408449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/releni/pseuds/releni
Summary: Spock being well and alive is enough. It has to be enough.After they return to Earth and resume their shore leave at Yosemite, McCoy can't sleep. Sybok took away some of his pain, but now McCoy is hunted by thoughts of losing Spock.[It's just old Spones getting together~]
Relationships: Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock
Comments: 10
Kudos: 72





	The Touch of You

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [OnlySlightlyObsessed1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnlySlightlyObsessed1), [FandomStar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomStar), and [NowImJustSomebodyThat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NowImJustSomebodyThat) for their helpful suggestions, and to everyone who was encouraging! All mistakes are my own.
> 
> This fic mentions Mirror, Mirror, The Wrath of Khan, and The Search for Spock.

_Their foreheads touch, breaths intermingling._

_“Be one with me.” The words echo through his mind. “Be with me.”_

_The gentle, warm waves flow between them. The tender touches dance against the back of his neck and across his jaw. Words he understands and words he doesn’t whisper in his mind. A soft press against his lips, and then a beeping sound breaks them apart._

_Strong fingers grip his wrist. He looks up._

_The eyes are cold. The face is younger. His throat constricts, and his eyes widen. He wants to shake off the pressure on his wrist, but he can’t. The piercing look holds him in place, stripping him of his strength._

_As if against his will he takes backward steps, and his back collides with a solid wall. He can’t look away. He’s not sure he wants to. Yet he’s also certain he does. When long fingers touch his face, he swallows, and his heartbeat quickens._

_“Our minds are merging, Doctor. Our minds are one.”_

_The face changes. The beard grows, and the eyebrows become thicker, hair longer. The cold, impassive face is now full of passion and unconcealed emotions._

_“Release this pain! Release it!”_

McCoy woke up. He turned on his back and looked at the sky, waiting for his heartbeat to calm. The treetops swaying in the wind obstructed his view. Somewhere, a bird of prey cried out. He was on Earth.

It had been years since McCoy dreamt about the other Spock. Years full of other, more terrifying nightmares. Jim and Spock tortured while he was unable to do anything, just watch and despair. Jim dying in various stupid stunts. Jim being killed, slowly, down on an unknown planet, alone in the darkness. Spock closed in a reactor room…

McCoy sat up. He could not, would not think about that one. That wasn’t a dream, and a moment during their latest mission brought the utter devastation and pain back, perhaps even more stronger than ever, and the echo still remained.

He glanced at Spock who slept on the left side of the fire ring, the top of his head almost brushing McCoy’s pillow. Spock had moved closer in his sleep. He lay on his side, half of his body on the forest ground, his hand stretched out towards McCoy’s sleeping space, fingers brushing the camping mat. With half of his face hidden by his sleeping bag, he looked painfully vulnerable.

Chest tightening, McCoy averted his gaze. How close were his own fingers to Spock’s when he had slept? McCoy wished to reach out and press his hand against Spock’s heart. He wished to encircle his fingers around Spock’s wrist, feel the quick heartbeat, and count the pulse despite knowing it was impossible without his instruments. He wished to touch and be touched and let the echo of pain dissipate. He couldn’t. Not when he didn’t know if Spock had remembered.

McCoy clenched his fists and pressed them into the ground, ignoring the needles digging into his knuckles.

On the other side of the fire ring, Jim snored. Two pinecones fell. McCoy carefully unzipped his sleeping bag, grabbed a sweater from the bottom, and stood up, knees cracking.

Quietly stepping over branches, McCoy walked toward the river and sat on a big log, putting the sweater over his shoulders. When he was a child, not even ten years old, he used to watch his grandfather fishing. His grandfather had sat on the shore, watched the pond, and waited for a fish to be lured in. It had seemed boring. The young boy couldn’t understand, but now nearing his grandfather’s age, McCoy appreciated the quiet of nature and the soft murmur of the river. Watching the flow was mesmerizing, and his mind emptied. Somewhere, a bird started to sing.

McCoy didn’t know how long he had sat there before a soft rustle startled him. Spock stood in front of him, his hair and clothes as impeccable as ever. McCoy gazed at him, not saying anything, savoring the view.

“Doctor,” Spock said, quiet and gentle.

“Morning.” McCoy greeted him, his lips curling a bit.

“It is early.”

“Why’re you up then?”

Spock’s eyelid twitched, a reaction so small that anyone who didn’t know Spock would hardly notice. McCoy narrowed his eyes.

“Vulcans do not need—”

“Like hell they don’t,” McCoy interrupted him without any heat. He let out a sigh and patted the log beside him. “Sit. My neck hurts from looking up at you.” 

“If you wish to be alone, I can leave,” Spock said.

“Sit down, Spock.”

McCoy looked back at the river. Several huge branches were stuck in the middle, breaking the smooth flow.

Spock sat next to him, and their arms brushed. It was just a brief contact, bringing back memories of them both doing it deliberately. Arms brushing in the corridors, a hand on the shoulder, a thigh against thigh during meal times; rarely an accident. McCoy wanted to press closer, to press their arms and thighs together, and feel the warmth of Spock’s presence again. Inside and outside.

He did not.

Shifting, McCoy left a small gap between them. Spock eyed him with a strange expression but said nothing.

“Couldn’t sleep?” McCoy asked, his voice rough.

“Like I tried to say, Doctor, the amount of sleep had been sufficient,” Spock said and glanced over at McCoy. “I do not believe the same can be said about you.”

“Do I look so terrible?”

“You do not. Your face has always been aesthe—” Spock stopped, averting his eyes.

McCoy blinked, not believing his ears. “What was that?”

Spock took a deep, controlled breath. “You are suffering from nightmares. What Sybok did to you—”

“No.” McCoy shook his head. “It’s fine. It’s fine, Spock.”

“It was a violation—”

McCoy put his hand on Spock’s knee. “What Sybok did, seems to be permanent. After more than twenty years, I can remember my father without guilt. I can talk about him. What Sybok did, it helped, Spock.”

Spock’s eyes were fixed on McCoy’s hand.

McCoy squeezed Spock’s knee. “He was a good Vulcan. A bit crazy in the head, but good,” McCoy said and meant it. He was grateful to Sybok. The pain was still there, but it was different. Bearable. Remembering his father without guilt, without the devastating pain, with only a pang of sadness and regret McCoy felt when reminiscing about his grandfather and mother, was a gift. He did not deserve it but received it anyway.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Spock said quietly.

McCoy patted Spock’s knee. If his words could bring Spock some peace, he would gladly say more. Before he pulled the hand away, Spock caught his wrist. Two of Spock’s fingers touched the bare skin. They were warm. Colder than a human touch would be, but still warm.

The undefined space that had been quiet in McCoy’s mind blinked to life. A soft, gentle presence, that had started quieting the more time they spent apart after the _fal-tor-pan_ , came back, and McCoy’s mind invited it in. He didn’t realize how much he had missed it.

He tugged his hand away.

“You keep shying away from my touch. Why?” Spock asked, his grip tightening.

“What do you mean ‘why’?”

“You have never done so,” Spock pointed out, moving his fingers over to the back of McCoy’s hand. A tentative, hesitant touch brushed McCoy’s consciousness. “But after I died—”

“Spock,” McCoy sighed, shifting, his knee brushing against Spock’s thigh. Spock pressed closer. McCoy tensed.

“Do you remember the night before Jim’s birthday?” Spock asked.

McCoy’s eyes widened. Memories strengthened by his dream came rushing back. Spock’s warm breath against his mouth. Spock’s fingers caressing his brows and cheeks, brushing his hair, touching his lips. The waves of warmth, devotion, and need. _Be one with me._ The words he wasn’t sure were real or not. A soft press of lips too short before Spock had been called to the bridge.

“Don’t,” McCoy whispered, shaking his head.

Spock let go of his hand, and the warm affection McCoy felt in his mind slowly withdrew. A wave of genuine regret filled him before it disappeared completely. He immediately regretted his words for he had never felt so alone, so empty.

“I am sorry,” Spock said, his face a wooden mask. “I will leave you alone.”

“No! Stay. Please.” McCoy faced the river again. A small bird sat on the branches. He needed Spock to stay. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew that if he let him go now, they would never speak about it again. He took a deep breath and said, “When you touch me, I can feel you. Here.” McCoy pointed at his head.

“I am sorry,” Spock repeated.

“It’s not your fault.” McCoy shrugged. “It’s just stronger these days. The need to…” He swallowed the _touch you_ he had wanted to say. His mind flashed back to Spock’s fingers brushing against McCoy’s sleeping mat and added his own, mere millimeters from Spock’s. Before he could examine the vision and his own feelings, Spock started to speak.

“Sybok weakened your shields, and your mind is... hurting and reaching out. I am responding to its call.”

McCoy wet his lips. That didn’t sound good. “Am I like a Siren?” McCoy picked at the bark of the log and peeled a part. He didn’t want their relationship to be influenced by some Vulcan magic. He knew about the link; it had always been a possibility that it wouldn’t dissolve completely, but it wasn’t supposed to have any mind-influencing effects. In the last couple of months, he had not even been aware of it. His stomach dropped.

“Your singing voice wouldn’t enchant anyone,” Spock said and before McCoy could react, he added, “The call is not compulsive.”

McCoy looked at Spock.

“Not on my side, nor on yours.”

“Are you sure? Are you sure the link we—”

“Sybok forced you to relive a painful memory, and the act made you remember a similar occasion. It will take days for your mind to heal, and you’re looking for comfort,” Spock said as he faced the river. “I simply do not enjoy seeing you in distress, Doctor. The bond has nothing to do with it.”

The bond. McCoy wet his lips. Then, “What similar occasion?”

“I experienced your dream,” Spock said as if it was a normal thing to do. “I didn’t know.”

“How?”

“I believe we touched as you dreamed.”

McCoy could swear Spock’s ears turned a shade darker.

“Well, maybe we’re lucky it wasn’t a different kind of dream,” McCoy joked, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“What I, what _he_ did—”

“Spock, it’s in the past. Let’s not bring it back.” He didn’t want to talk about it. “Please.”

Spock nodded as he continued watching the river. McCoy hoped he wouldn’t start blaming himself. It wouldn’t do either of them any good.

Another bird joined the first one on the branches. They hopped from branch to branch, chirping. It was peaceful.

Spock seemed to wish to resume where they had left off more than seven months ago. After years of dancing around each other, after years of finding comfort in each other’s bed, Spock had wanted to make their relationship exclusive and official. When McCoy had said ‘yes’, Spock kissed him with an expression so tender, McCoy’s chest hurt. It felt like a dream. And like many dreams, it ended with a cruel twist.

And yet Spock was here and alive and willing. One word, it would take only one word and they could… McCoy closed his eyes and laid his head on Spock’s shoulder.

After a while, Spock said, “Your mind is exceptionally strong.”

McCoy hummed. He had enough of all the mind nonsense. He made his decision and straightened.

“So, Spock, you think my face is pretty?” McCoy asked, stretching his legs.

“I did not say that.”

“I believe you did. It makes me happy your appreciation for beauty increased at last.”

Spock turned around and met McCoy’s eyes. “I’ve found you aesthetically pleasing for years, Leonard.” 

The name sent a shiver down McCoy’s spine. It had been too long since he heard it last. His heart started to beat faster. Spock’s eyes were so incredibly soft and warm. McCoy leaned forward.

Spock raised his hand, his gaze never flinching from McCoy’s. He lifted his eyebrow in question.

McCoy’s eyes flickered to Spock’s hand. His fingers were spread, resembling the Vulcan salute, but not quite, and they moved closer and closer to McCoy’s face. McCoy’s heart beat in his temple, loud, and Spock’s face blurred and merged with the memory of the other Spock.

“Leonard.” The name brought him back.

Spock’s eyes were uncertain and pained, and McCoy didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.

“Yes,” he whispered.

Spock cupped his face, the thumb brushing against the corner of his mouth. McCoy leaned into the warm touch, closing his eyes. The palm was soft, without calluses, and so different from his memory. And yet the same. Reminded of Spock’s rebirth, McCoy’s chest tightened, and he pressed closer with the hope that it would banish the pain.

Spock’s other hand traveled down McCoy’s arm until it reached his hand. With two fingers, Spock caressed the back of McCoy’s hand. Slowly in small circles. It tickled. It sent a tingling feeling up his arm and a surge of affection and fondness into his mind, breaking the clouds of pain. It was strange. It had never been like this.

McCoy took a shuddering breath and rotated his palm, interlocking his fingers with Spock’s. That was more familiar. Spock had always liked to hold McCoy’s hand. Their bodies joined, Spock squeezing his hand and pressing it into the pillow as his other hand hovered above the meld points; never touching, never asking.

McCoy’s heart tightened. At that time, he hadn’t understood. At that time, he hadn’t felt Spock’s mind. Spock hadn’t let him, until the day McCoy had said ‘yes’.

He covered Spock’s hand on his face and kissed the inside of Spock’s palm. Spock sighed, his warm breath tickling McCoy’s face. Their eyes met. Spock’s dilated pupils and parted lips made his heart flutter. Warmth, tenderness, and longing pulsed in McCoy’s mind, mixing with his own emotions. _Be one with me_ , he remembered and thought hard at Spock, trying to send his own feelings, desire, and devotion across. Spock gasped, and McCoy knew it had worked. He grinned, leaning his forehead against Spock’s, putting his hand on the back of Spock’s neck.

“Leonard.” Spock’s lips almost brushed McCoy’s, sending more shivers down McCoy’s spine and up his arms. “Will you—”

“Yes,” McCoy whispered and closed the small gap between their lips.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration:
> 
> The Final Frontier - J. M. Dillard
> 
> "Be with me. Be one with me." is from The Last Gunfight aka the novelization of Spectre of the Gun (Star Trek 3 by James Blish)
> 
> \------------------
> 
> Thank you for reading. 
> 
> Concrit is welcome.


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